


Five Times Dean Fell Asleep On Someone, And One Time He Got Used As A Pillow Right Back

by IAmSorry__sendmeaprompt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adorable Castiel, Adorable Dean Winchester, Adorable Sam Winchester, Baby Sam Winchester, Bad Parent John Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, Crying Sam Winchester, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester Cuddling, Dean Winchester is Sam Winchester's Parent, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Gray-Asexual Castiel (Supernatural), Human Castiel (Supernatural), John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Light Angst, M/M, Platonic Cuddling, Protective Dean Winchester, Samulet Fix-It (Supernatural), Seriously so much cuddling y'all, Sick Castiel (Supernatural), Sick Sam Winchester, Surprise Kissing, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:27:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28023942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmSorry__sendmeaprompt/pseuds/IAmSorry__sendmeaprompt
Summary: I think the title says it all. This was just an excuse to write adorable fluffy snuggling, and then plot happened >:(
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 34
Kudos: 197





	1. John Winchester

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wayward_sherlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wayward_sherlock/gifts).



> John Winchester does take care of his kids here, but only after neglecting them for a while. John Winchester s a dick and nobody can convince me otherwise, and this is not in any way meant to redeem him.
> 
> Disclaimer: I'm not affiliated with spn, I don't own any of this

Dean hadn’t slept in three days, which he privately thought was understandable. Sammy was fussy, because he didn’t have any of his toys, and Dean did his best to keep him occupied. Sammy also threw up a lot. Dad had said it was because his tummy wasn’t used to the formula he had to drink now.

Dean tried not to think about why Sammy had to drink formula, but it never worked. Mostly because he missed his Mommy.

His Mommy was dead. She’d burned up in the fire, and now Dean would never get to see her again. He sniffled, perched on the edge of the motel bed.

“Quiet, Dean,” Dad said gruffly, from the desk across the room. “I’m working.”

Dean didn’t want Dad to be working. He wanted Dad to pick him up and hold him and tell him it was all going to be okay, and help him take care of Sammy, and most of all he wanted Dad to go and do laundry because he and Sammy and Dad all still smelled like smoke and it made Dean’s head hurt.

He curled up on his side and tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes he could see the flames and hear his Mommy screaming. So yeah, Dean wasn’t sleeping much.

He squirmed around on the scratchy motel blanket, trying to get comfortable. His eyes itched, he was so tired, and he was sure that if he just got into the right position he’d be able to sleep, just for a little bit.

His moving disturbed Sammy, who had been napping on the other side of the bed, and he woke up with a hiccupping wail. Dean hurriedly scooted over to him. 

“Dean, take care of your brother.” Dad didn’t even look away from the newspaper clippings he was going through.

Dean hauled Sammy into his lap and tried to bounce him gently the way Mommy had shown him. “Shhh, Sammy, it’s all right. It’s okay.”

Sam stopped wailing, hiccuped twice, then threw up all over Dean.

“Dad!” Dean shrugged off his shirt and used a clean sleeve to gently wipe Sammy’s mouth. Sammy blinked up at him.

Sighing, Dad stood up. His knees popped as he stretched. “All right, Dean. I’ll go do laundry. See if you can get Sammy to eat something.” He gathered up their few items of clothing and left the room.

Dean put Sammy back down on the bed. Sam opened his mouth to yell again, and Dean deftly picked up his pacifier and stuck it in before the noise could come out. Sammy quietened down, sucking on the pacifier, and Dean walked over to where Sammy’s bottle was sitting, empty on the counter by the tiny kitchenette.

Focusing intently, he measured out the formula and mixed it up, then climbed up on top of the counter so he could stick the bottle in the microwave. He knew Mommy had shown him how to warm it up on the stove, and had said to never do it in the microwave, but he didn’t have a stove.

He yelped as he closed his fingers in the microwave door, then set to heating up the bottle. He stirred it up really well to make sure it was heated evenly, and then dripped a little bit of it on the inside of his wrist just like Mommy had always done.

It felt warm but not hot, which was good, because Sammy was a baby and he didn’t know any better than to not eat hot food when it was in front of him, so it was all up to Dean to make sure he didn’t burn himself. He walked with the warm bottle back over to the bed and crawled up onto the mattress.

Once he was settled against the pillows, sitting up, he pulled Sammy onto his lap and tried to get him to drink.

He was still trying to get Sammy to drink (he’d had up to the second little line on the bottle, and Dean didn’t know quite what that meant but he knew it wasn’t enough) when Dad came back with clean clothes.

Dad picked Sammy up and held him cradled in one big arm, then took the bottle from Dean. “I’ll finish with Sammy,” he said. “You get a shirt on and put away the clothes.”

Dean wriggled into a shirt quickly and then painstakingly folded up the clothes and stored them in the duffel bag Dad had bought for them. By the time he finished, Dad had gotten Sammy to drink half the bottle, and was patting his back to make him burp.

Sam burped, hiccupped, and went to sleep.

Dad put him down on the bed next to Dean, told Dean to look after him, and went back to his desk, trying to figure out what had killed Mommy.

Dean curled himself around Sammy, nearly hiding the baby from view completely, and tried to get some sleep.

He was just fighting his way out of a nightmare - he hadn’t been fast enough to get Sammy out and the fire had caught them and there were flames licking at Sammy’s blanket as Dean struggled to reach him - when he became aware of a large, soothing hand on his back.

Dad was sitting on the bed right where Dean had been earlier when he was trying to get Sammy to eat. “It’s all right, Dean,” he said, still rubbing Dean’s back, and Dean launched himself into his Dad’s arms.

Dad chuckled a little bit. “It’s okay. You’re safe. Try to get some sleep.” He hoisted Sammy into his other arm as Dean curled up on the bed with his head in Dad’s lap. Dad had a book balanced across his knees with the hand that wasn’t holding Sammy, and Dean knew that Dad was gonna be awake to make sure that the nightmares didn’t come and get him.

He snuggled closer to Dad’s warmth, wrapping one thin arm around his waist, before falling asleep. He could feel Dad pull the blanket over him, then occasionally reach over to rub his back.

Dean got a full eight hours of sleep for the first time since the fire, and Dad was still there when he woke up, which was a treat in and of itself.


	2. Ellen Harvelle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ellen! Dean is still young in this one, poor boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That book mentioned at the end? The Story of Ferdinand? Read it. Please. It's a kid's book but it is amazing, and I carted my copy around with me as a child until it fell to bits.

Dean was nine the first time his Dad left him and Sammy at Harvelle’s Roadhouse overnight with Ellen.

It was supposed to be just for one night, because he and Bill were gonna partner up for a malevolent (Dean could finally pronounce malevolent right, and took every opportunity to use it) spirit a couple of towns away, and they were gonna be back by lunchtime the next day.

Dean spent a very enjoyable few hours playing Hide and Seek with Sammy and Jo, then went in for dinner.

After dinner, when he was supposed to be asleep but wasn’t, he crept downstairs to double-check all the door locks. Dad always had him do that no matter where they were staying, because they never knew when the monsters would come after them. He could hear Ellen in her kitchen, on the phone with somebody.

“I’m just worried for Bill,” she said. “You know what that John Winchester is like.”

This confused Dean, because John Winchester was Dad, and in his opinion Dad was the best dang hunting partner Bill could have. He inched closer to the doorway and kept listening.

“He’s blinded,” Ellen was saying. “He’ll sacrifice anyone and anything to kill whatever evil bastard he’s after.”

Dean made a squeaking noise, because Ellen had said what he knew was a bad word, and he absolutely couldn’t wait to use it tomorrow and see what she did. Then he remembered that he had a mission, to hear what Ellen was saying, and focused on listening again.

“I just feel bad for those poor kids. He hasn’t been a real parent to them for years.”

Dean didn’t know what to make of that, so he crept down the hallway, checked the lock on the front door, and headed back upstairs to crawl into bed next to Sammy.

***

The next day, lunchtime came and went without a sign of Dad or Bill. It was around two in the afternoon when Jo got tired of playing and retreated to her room to wait for the hunters to return, and her departure let Sammy know that something was wrong.

“Why’s Jo upset?” he wanted to know.

Dean rubbed at the back of his neck. He didn’t want to tell Sammy, not yet, because Sammy would get worried, and Sammy threw up and cried a lot when he got worried. “S’not a big deal.”

Sammy tugged on his sleeve. “What is it, De? What is it?” 

Dean sighed. He was completely unable to deny a pleading Sam anything. “It’s just that Dad and Mister Bill should’ve been back a couple hours ago.”

Sammy sniffled once, then sat down hard on the patch of dirt they’d been playing farm on earlier. 

Dean knelt down in front of him. “Hey, it’s okay. Dad’s awesome, he’s gonna be fine.”

The reassurances of their dad’s awesomeness worked for a couple of hours, but when there was no update by dinner, Sammy started to get antsy.

Jo hadn’t even come down for dinner, and Ellen sat at the head of the table with worry lines prominent on her forehead and her mouth pinched in a frown. Dean did his best to be quiet and polite, not wanting her to get angry.

“Where’s Dad?” Sammy asked.

Dean put down his spoon, the chili in front of him suddenly not very appetizing. “Dad’ll be back soon, Sammy. Eat your dinner.”

“Is he - is he dead l-like Mommy?” Sammy’s lower lip was trembling and Dean could tell the waterworks were about to begin.

Dean slid out of his chair and hurried around the table to Sammy’s seat, pulling his brother into a hug. “No, no he’s not, he’s gonna be fine.”

Sammy let out a little squeaking noise that Dean knew to be the precursor to the worry-induced vomiting, and shoved Sammy’s mostly-empty chili bowl under his nose just in time.

Sammy finished throwing up, retched twice, then looked up at Dean with sad, soulful eyes.

Ellen had jumped up when the vomiting first started, and now she gently took the bowl out of Dean’s hand and carried it into the kitchen.

Dean made Sammy swish his mouth with the last of the water in his glass.

Ellen came back with a damp cloth and washed Sammy’s face gently, then sat down next to him and pulled him onto her lap. She was rocking him back and forth in that way that Dean could never quite manage, because he wasn’t big enough yet. “Wanna tell me what that was about?” she asked, in what Dean thought was the kindest voice she was capable of.

Sammy sniffled in response, so Dean took it upon himself to answer. “He does that when he gets real worried. I’ll take him to bed and make sure it doesn’t happen again. Sorry, ma’am.”

“Oh, Dean, that’s not what I’m worried about. Here, I’ll clean up dinner while you two go brush your teeth and get ready for bed, then how about a bedtime story?”

That sounded acceptable to Dean.

Of course, Sammy was fast asleep before Dean could even get him into his pajama pants, and he remained passed out as Ellen came into their room with a book. “Hey, Dean,” she said. “How is he?”

“He’s good. Asleep.”

“And how are you?”

Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d been asked that, so he took a minute to catalogue his thoughts. He was worried about Dad and Sammy, he was afraid that something had happened to Dad, he was scared. “I’m okay,” he said. “Can we read a story?”

“We sure can,” Ellen answered, sitting on the edge of the bed and opened  _ The Story of Ferdinand. _

Dean considered his options, and figured that even though he was a big boy now, he could probably get away with crawling into her lap for one story, so that was what he did.

He fell asleep leaning against Ellen, curled up in her lap as she read to him about a bull who just wanted to smell the flowers instead of participating in bullfights, and he didn’t wake up when she finished the book, tucked him into bed, and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.


	3. Sam Winchester

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disagreements and Emotions galore, which works about as well as ever for these two dumbass boys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's where the angst kicks in, because I am an evil human, and cannot leave well enough alone. Don't worry though! I fixed it!

Dean had been all fire and righteous fury when it had happened.

He wasn’t that anymore.

It had been two weeks since he’d heard the  _ thunk _ of the amulet his brother had given him hitting the bottom of the cheap motel trash can, and since then, they’d traveled together, hunted together, even ate together in stony silence.

Sam couldn’t even look at him.

Dean had, in a fit of despair, (always so single-minded, Dean, why do you focus on one singular problem and block out everything else important?) thrown the amulet away. It wouldn’t be able to help them find God, not that they needed it after the questionable ritual Cas had pulled off to end the Apocalypse which had somehow worked, so to his focused mind, the amulet was useless.

It wasn’t.

Somehow, Dean had forgotten the memory of a floppy-haired, eight year old Sammy shoving the clumsily wrapped package at him that Christmas their Dad had left them alone.

Sam had been crushed when Dad hadn’t come back, and Dean had done his best to give Sam the best Christmas he could manage.

That amulet was tangible proof of how much Sam loved him and looked up to him, and Dean had thrown it in the trash.

He’d realized this on the second day after it had happened, directly after the Apocalypse had been narrowly averted by Cas’ aforementioned sketchy ritual. He’d turned to give Sam a high five, or maybe a manly hug with a lot of shoulder slapping, but Sam had turned away from him.

Dean had tried to get them back into the swing of things, clearing out a nest of vamps in Oklahoma then heading over to Tennessee for a possible kitsune, all the while trying to draw Sam back into the bantering, brotherly relationship they’d previously maintained.   
So. Two weeks later, and Dean was sitting outside their motel room of the night, still covered in an exploding bog monster’s gunk, with the fast food he’d been summarily ordered to pick up while Sam took first shower.

Dean couldn’t begrudge Sam first shower, not after how much he’d inadvertently hurt him, so he’d gone without complaint. Even picked Sam up what the restaurant thought passed for a chicken Caesar salad, complete with the stinky, fishy dressing.

He thunked his hand on the steering wheel, wishing he could find the words to man up and talk to Sam. He was no good at chick-flick moments, he knew that, but it was starting to feel like one was called for here.

Sighing at the dried mud and swamp grass flaking off onto the previously pristine seat of his Baby, Dean heaved himself out of the car and went up to the room’s door with his offering of greasy salad.

After a brief struggle with one hell of a sticky key, which made Dean make a mental note to bring out the powdered graphite if they were gonna be staying there more than a day, he was back in the room.

The room was empty, but he could hear the shower running, which meant that Sam was still in the shower.

Dean had left the room forty minutes ago, and Sam had been in the shower then too, and Dean knew for a fact that the janky motel they were staying in didn’t have the water heater for a forty minute long shower.

He moved closer to the door and leaned in, not even trying to act like he wasn’t eavesdropping.

He heard a quiet, hitching sob and a low whimper. Jesus, he’d made Sam cry.

His baby brother was crying in the shower because of what a monumental fuckup Dean was.

He put the food bag down on a bed and knocked softly on the bathroom door.

Sam made a surprised little noise on the other side, not quite covered by the rushing noise. Then there was the sound of a slight scrambling, and a thin voice called out “I’ll be right out! Sorry!”

“Sammy,” Dean said, still leaning against the door like he wanted to perform osmosis through it and comfort Sam properly.

The door opened and Sam breezed past him, marched over to his duffle to pull on some pants and a shirt (Dean temporarily averted his sympathetic, talk-to-me-Sammy gaze), then sat down on his bed and started very angrily eating salad in Dean’s general direction.

Dean sighed and scrubbed a hand across his stubble. Then he decided that this conversation should really be had face-to-face, so he moved over to his bed and sat down across from Sam. “Hey, man,” he started.

“Don’t,” Sam said around his mouthful of chicken.

“I gotta.” Dean shifted around to get comfortable. “This is about the amulet.”

Sam put down his salad and very deliberately got up and retreated into the bathroom. Dean heard the distinct clicking of the shitty motel lock sliding into place.

He was then faced with a dilemma. He could pick it and barge in, but that probably wouldn’t help the Sam situation. He moved off of the bed and settled on the floor, leaning against the door. “Sam, please. Just hear me out?”

The bathroom door did not answer.

“Tell you what, give me five minutes and I’ll let you take a swing at me when you come out.”

That got him a watery, muffled “Okay, fine.”

Dean wiped his sweat-slick palms on his jeans, suddenly fully aware that what he said next could make or break his relationship with his brother. “I fucked up. Big time. And I hurt you, and I’m sorry.” He took a deep, shaky breath. How had he let it get this out of hand? “That amulet wasn’t useless. It was from you and I- I didn’t treasure it like I should have. Lately, I haven’t even been treasuring  _ you  _ like I should have.”

He heard a soft clunk, like someone on the other side of the door had sat down against it forgetting they had a Taurus tucked into their waistband. Then Sam’s voice. “You apologized.” He sounded surprised, and Dean mentally kicked himself for turning into such a dick that his baby brother couldn’t even get an apology out of him. He pressed one hand against the door, wishing it could get him closer to Sam.

“Yeah, You deserve an apology. Hell, for what I’ve put you through you deserve more. And I’m gonna- I’m gonna be better.”

The door creaked open, revealing a slumped Sam, blinking up at him with red-rimmed eyes. Dean scrambled to his feet and pounced on his brother, smothering him in a hug. “I’m so sorry, Sammy, I’m so, so sorry, please talk to me.”

Sam hugged him back, gripping Dean like he was a drowning man relying on his rescuer. His face pressed into the crook of Dean’s neck and he sniffled, and Dean was instantly hit with the desperate need to get Sammy safe and warm and cared for, not sitting on the dirty bathroom floor of a shitty motel because of something Dean had done. “Come on, baby boy, let’s get you to bed.”

He gets Sam into his flannel pants instead of the jeans, and bustles around tucking him under the covers and feeding him the rest of his salad. Sam, thoroughly bewildered by the sudden, violent uptick in Dean’s mother henning habits, goes pliantly along.

By the time Dean is certain that every issue has been talked out, and is ready to go to bed, Sam has had ample time to work up to the puppy-dog eyes. Really, it’s probably the best performance of his life. “Will you stay with me? Just for tonight?” His eyes are pleading with Dean, and he remembers long, cold nights alone in motel rooms, when a shivering Sammy in his footie pajamas would crawl into his bed after a nightmare needing reassurance, and nods.

Then he clears his throat and wipes furiously at his eyes, because something must be stuck there. Probably dust. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”

He crawls into the bed and curls himself around the tiny little ball his gigantic brother can somehow curl into, and then Sam’s hand is extending out of that little ball toward him, shaking with nerves. “If you want it,” Sam says, and the hand opens.

It’s the amulet.

“God, yeah, Sam, I want it. I’m never gonna take it off again.” Dean drifts off to sleep with the rise and fall of his baby brother’s chest steady under his arm, and one of the brass horns of the amulet stabbing into his cheek, and it’s the best night’s sleep he’s ever had.


	4. Charlie Bradbury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A case kicks their asses and Charlie, in her infinite wisdom, then saves those asses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, they watched Supernatural. I'm considering breaking the promise I made to myself years ago and writing a rpf for spn, would anyone like to see that? I have no shame anymore so *shrugs*

Dean shoved the bunker door open with a sigh and limped his way down the stairs. Behind him, he could hear Sam cursing and Charlie’s strained breathing.

They’d just driven three hours with law enforcement on their tail, plus another four after that, after a routine salt-and-burn had gone wrong.

Dean had accidentally set off the museum’s security system when he set fire to the old rocking chair that also happened to have the spirit of a very pissed off nanny tied to it, and security had appeared.

Apparently it had been a very valuable rocking chair, and Dean was a vagrant and a hoodlum who needed to be taken in immediately. He’d just been considering the possibility of talking his way out of this one when Sam had poked his head inside to ask what the hell was taking so long, and had also been captured.

One of the cops had taken a good squint at their faces, and declared that “It’s those Winchester boys, by God, we thought you lot were dead years ago!” Dean had sneered at him, Sam had gotten clunked over the head with a flashlight and gone down like a sack of rocks, and the pissed off spirit had manifested right in the middle of their little group, very upset that someone was trying to burn her chair.

In short, it all went to hell in a handbasket.

The chair wasn’t burning fast enough, Sam was unconscious, and Dean was about to get handcuffed when Sam’s police officer, who had been standing triumphantly over him, went suddenly and unexpectedly flying across the room to get tangled in some ancient quilt hanging on the wall.

Then Sam went flying too, all limp arms and dragging legs, and got slammed up against the opposite wall with the glowing form of the nanny hovering in front of him, wizened fingers clenched around his throat.

Sam sure did get choked a lot on hunts, and usually they shrugged it off, but Dean just felt like there was something wrong with choking a man who can’t fight back. He started yelling obscenities at the nanny as the fire danced away from the rocker and engulfed the rest of the display, she shot at him, he ducked and she hit the officer behind him, he lunged for the gas can to spray some more on the flames as the cop struggled to get up and finish cuffing him…

Then Charlie waltzed in. They’d left her at the motel a few blocks away, but she’d decided she needed to be there. She fired a couple of tranquilizers at the cops, dropping them, before shooting the spirit with rock salt.

Dean gave her a thumbs up and finished burning the chair before using the old quilt to smother the rest of the fire. He really didn’t want to burn down the entire building.

So here they were, having successfully avoided the backup the cops had called in, and a little worse for wear.

“Okay,” Charlie said. “Shower, then we’re watching that awful Carver Edlund show on Netflix to de-stress.” She headed off for her room and, presumably, the shower she’d claimed.

Dean groaned and leaned heavily on Sam as they made their way to get cleaned up.

***

They reconvened in the sitting room, Sam with an ice pack perched comically on his head and Dean with gauze taped over the spot on his leg where he’d gotten a little bit singed, and waited for Charlie to come in.

There was a show called Supernatural on Netflix, and it was based on the books written by Carver Edlund. Charlie found it hilarious; Sam and Dean found it highly unsettling. It was about their lives, after all.

Charlie appeared and called up the next episode of the show while Dean fussed over Sam, tucking blankets around him and making sure his ice pack was directly on his injury. Sam swatted him away, so he switched to fussing over Charlie as she sat down between them.

“I’m the only one here who isn’t hurt,” she told him.

“You inhaled some smoke. Does your throat itch?” He peered at her closely.

She thwacked his shoulder. “Shush, handmaiden. The show is starting.”

Sam started snoring softly before the intro was even finished, slumped down against the armrest in his blanket nest.

Stupid Sasquatch looked too comfortable. Dean hmphed and turned his attention back to the screen. Great, this was the one with the old racist truck. That had been one hell of a hunt.

By the time the truck had killed the mayor, Dean’s eyelids were getting heavy. All the adrenaline from the hunt and subsequent car chase had drained away, and he was exhausted. He tipped his head back against the couch cushion and closed his eyes.

He woke up a little bit when his pillow moved, and made an inquisitive humming noise. “Shhh,” Charlie’s voice said. “Just continuing to the next episode.”

Dean, using his very intelligent thinking skills, deduced that he was asleep, and probably drooling, on her shoulder.

He considered sitting up.

He discarded the idea of sitting up, figuring that if Charlie wanted him gone she’d shove him away. Besides, she was comfortable and he was tired, and he was damn well going to snooze through their movie night if he wanted.

“Your back is going to regret this tomorrow,” she informed him.

“Mmph. Five more minutes?”

“Okay. Five more minutes.”

***

She was right, of course, his back did hate him the next morning, because when he woke up, all three of them were still tangled together on the couch.

He wriggled out of the mass of limbs and tried to stand up, wincing in pain as his spine made several alarming cracking noises. Then, scratching his stubble absently, he padded barefoot into the kitchen and started poking around for breakfast.

Then he went back into the other room to take a quick picture of a sleeping Sam, because he had one arm flung around Charlie and a pointer finger hooked in the side of his mouth.

The smell of bacon and waffles roused Charlie, who came bounding in with far too much energy and started motioning for him to put chocolate chips in the waffle batter.

Dean, who hadn’t had his coffee yet thanks to the very slow percolator, sat back and let her take over.

Sam got up when Charlie tickled his nose with a piece of bacon, and they all settled in in the kitchen with their various foods: Charlie digging into a chocolate chip waffle while typing quickly on her laptop, Sam crunching on a piece of bacon sleepily, and Dean staring into the dregs of his first cup of coffee like it held the answers to the universe.


	5. Castiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It happens! There is kissing!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhhh... spoilers for The Notebook ahead, I guess.
> 
> Hey, wayward_sherlock, that bit is in there especially for you <3 hope you like it! I mean, the whole fic is for you, but... you know what I mean.
> 
> Also, I tagged for ace!Cas. I'm not ace so I hope I didn't misrepresent anyone, if I did please tell me and I'll fix it, I just feel like Cas doesn't really 'get' the whole human sexuality thing with how he's written here :)

Cas was newly human when he showed up at the bunker, which meant Sam, newly back in possession of his body and mostly not pissed at Dean anymore, and Dean himself got the dubious honor of teaching the angel to actually act like a human.

The first lesson was that one cannot live on frozen food alone. Dean taught Cas to supplement his diet with cheeseburgers, and Sam showed him food pyramids and lectured about protein and vegetables and antioxidants and by then Dean was dozing off on the table so he missed the last three-quarters of the lesson.

Then there was hydration. Cas collapsed from dehydration in the map room, completely out of the blue, and scared the ever-loving shit out of both of them. After that, Sam made him carry around a water bottle with clearly marked labels showing how much he was supposed to have drunk by a certain time.

Then Dean had gotten it into his head to teach his Cas (when had Cas become his Cas, anyway?) about pop culture. 

The first lesson did not go as planned, because the movie his dumb Sasquatch brother had procured for them was  _ The Notebook _ . Then Sam had frolicked off to Storage Room #7 with the intense need to catalogue a bunch of old, probably not cursed vases, and Dean had been sat on the couch watching a rom-com with his Cas.

Again with the his Cas stuff, what was that about?

Ally chose Noah, of course, as he’d known she would, and he definitely didn’t cry. And if he did, it was just one tear, which was very manly.

Oh, who was he kidding, he’d bawled into a Kleenex and started rambling about how great love was, and then he’d started kicking himself for drinking an entire six-pack because he always got emotional when he drank Dogfish IPA. He theorized that it was all the hops messing with his emotional imbalance.

Anyway, he looked over at Cas, and he was crying too, so it wasn’t a big deal. It really wasn’t.

Then the movie had ended, and Dean had cleaned his face off (and so had Cas) and they just sat on the couch for a minute. 

Dean started picking at the label of one of his empty beer bottles, wishing for something to break the kind of awkward silence you only get if you’re watching rom-coms with a fallen angel late at night, while mostly drunk and maybe a little bit in denial of your own feelings toward said fallen angel.

Cas, who was apparently in no such denial, leaned closer to Dean on the couch. He put one callus-roughened hand on Dean’s cheek and tilted his head to look at him.

Thoroughly surprised, Dean focused on Cas’ eyes. They really were the most beautiful shade of blue, and he couldn’t help but notice that, now that he was human and spending more time outside, the man had a small smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. And his hair was just perfect, dark and thick and adorably tousled, and-

And then Cas was kissing him, just a quick, tentative press of dry lips against his.

Somewhere in Dean’s sloshed, panicking brain, he made a note to remind Cas to hydrate more. Then all his scattered, confused brain cells got their collective shit together and reminded him that, oh yeah, Cas was kissing him, and he really wanted to kiss back, so he did.

They eventually made their way, by mutual agreement, to Dean’s bed, partially because it was closer and partially because hello, memory foam. Dean sat on the edge of the bed and drew Cas down into his lap, pressing butterfly kisses to the other man’s neck.

His mands moved to the other man’s shirt, one of Dean’s given to him, then slipped inside the soft cotton. Cas kissed him back eagerly, his own hands finding purchase on Dean’s waist.

Pushing further up the expanse of smooth, tanned skin he was just aching to mark up, Dean almost didn’t notice when he felt a nearly imperceptible tensing of Cas’ muscles.

He pulled away from the kiss, and settled his hands back reassuringly on Cas’ hips. “You all right, baby?”

Cas looked at him, cheeks flushed and mouth swollen, hair even messier. He also looked a little bit lost. “I- I think so. I’m just not sure I- I don’t know what-” He seemed uncertain and nearly ready to flee, so Dean gently drew him back against his torso and brushed a light kiss to his forehead.

“We don't have to do anything you don’t want to, sweetheart. We can go at your pace.” He ran his fingers through Cas’ hair and the other man leaned into the touch, nearly purring.

“I liked the kissing,” Cas said. “And the- the cuddling. Can we do that?”

“Oh, baby,” Dean replied. “We can absolutely do that. You can have as many kisses as you want.”

Cas was fidgeting with his hands, still sitting flush against Dean’s chest in his lap. Dean could feel his heartbeat racing. When he next spoke, his voice was quiet. “What if- what if I never want more than that?”

“Then I’ll be just fine. It would be an honor to spend my life kissing you.”

With that discussion nicely cleared up, they shifted backward on the bed so they were lying next to each other. Cas propped himself up on his elbow, leaning over Dean. Dean made sure to keep his hands in acceptable, above-the-clothes places, and let Cas set the pace for the tentative kisses and caresses that followed.

It was, hands down, the best night of Dean’s life. His Cas was so sweet and pliant as he gradually gained confidence and maneuvered so Dean was the one on top of him, trusting Dean not to push his limits and to take care of him.

The pure trust and love shining out of Cas’ eyes nearly undid Dean as they lay there, trading kisses and soft words. Eventually the kisses and talking tapered off, and Cas’ big blue eyes blinked closed.

Dean tried to shift off of him so he wouldn’t crush the other man, but only made it about halfway when Cas, who was apparently an octopus when he slept, latched onto him.

Dean fell asleep awkwardly sprawled across his boyfriend. Boyfriend?

Yeah, boyfriend.

Anyway, Dean fell asleep awkwardly sprawled across him, his lower half too hot from all the blankets and his nipples nearly freezing off, with his head resting on Cas’ shoulder in a way that was sure to give him a crick in his neck, and he loved every second of it.


	6. In Which Dean Is A Body Pillow For Sick, Snuggly People In Need Of Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Cas come down with something from a case, and Dean slips easily into the role of caretaker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is literally just shameless fluffiness so fluffy it will rot your teeth out

In retrospect, hunting the kelpie in the middle of January in Michigan was a bad idea. They’d spent hours in the cold outside, and they’d dealt with a very obviously sick deputy.

Dean was okay, of course, but then Dean hadn’t been held under the icy water by an angry seaweed horse. Sam and Cas both had, and that was the straw that broke the hypothetical camel’s back of their immune systems.

Dean was three hours into the drive back to the bunker when he heard the first sniffle, which was quickly followed by the first sneeze, which was quickly followed by the first (but not the last) bout of intense cursing.

Dean pulled into the first motel he saw, which happened to be a step up from their usual accommodations. Well, the Men of Letters had had money, they may as well use it. He resigned himself to a pharmacy run as he guided a shuffling Sam and a thoroughly bewildered yet still sneezing Cas into the room.

Then he went to the nearest pharmacy and bought out their cough syrup, cold medicine, and NyQuil stashes. By the time he made it back to the motel, Cas was in the shower and Sam was an unmoving lump under the bedcovers.

That was the thing about Sam. When he got sick, he got catatonic. He didn’t move much and didn’t eat much, just slept and bitched and was generally miserable until he felt better. Privately, Dean thought he turned that way because Sam had known when they were kids that trying to get their Dad to take time off and care for them because of a simple cold or flu never worked. He’d taught his body to shut down to minimal function when he was sick, and Dean couldn’t blame him. He did the same thing.

“Hey, Sammy,” he said, poking the lump, which let out a pitiful groan. “Yeah, yeah, poke your head up. I’ve got Advil, NyQuil, and those weird-ass cherry lozenges you like.”

Sam’s head, topped with a truly impressive bird’s nest of hair, grudgingly appeared. Dean fed him the two Advil with a cup of water, then tossed a lozenge into his mouth. Sam, apparently sated, returned to his nest.

When Cas got out of the shower, Dean was waiting for him. “Hey babe. Here, take these. They’ll help.”

Cas, eyeing him suspiciously, took the pills. Dean tried very hard not to laugh at his boyfriend’s red nose and watery eyes, the man was obviously hurting. “Okay, now some NyQuil. It’ll help you sleep, too.”

Cas drank the NyQuil, although he first made it known that he hated the taste. Then he stood there in his pajamas looking like a zombie until Dean pulled back their covers. “Well? Hop in. It’s gonna take more than a sniffle to keep me from cuddling you.”

Cas obliged.

***

The rest of the trip back to the bunker was uneventful. Sam spent most of it conked out completely across the backseat, his congested snoring a grating but reassuring reminder that he wasn’t actually dead, no matter how much he looked it.

Cas spent most of the trip curled up in the front seat with his legs tucked under him and his head resting on Dean’s thigh as Dean drove.

It was a very interesting contortion, and Dean wasn’t sure how the other man managed it, but somehow he did. He drove carefully, not wanting to disturb his precious cargo, and also because Cas glared up at him with all the ferocity of a soaking wet puppy whenever he went over a bad enough bump to make the man’s earbuds fall out.

Cas was listening to a podcast made by a beekeeper, and Dean had the distinct feeling that he was going to be building some hives to set up in the bunker’s ever-growing garden very soon indeed.

***

When they reached the bunker, Dean maneuvered a sleepily blinking Sam and Cas to their table and set about heating up a can of chicken noodle soup, promising as he did so to make tomato-rice soup tomorrow, but until he could run into town and get the tomatoes, they were just gonna hafta deal.

Cas mumbled his agreement, or maybe it was something about bees. Dean couldn’t tell; Cas had taken more NyQuil earlier and was nearly asleep.

After he’d made his charges eat, he ushered them into their respective beds and went into the kitchen to find a beer.

As he popped it open with his ring, he heard a weak voice calling for him, and went to see what Sam needed.

Apparently, Sam reverted into a five year old when he was really out of it, and he just blearily made grabby hands at Dean until he sighed and crawled into the bed to cuddle his sick baby brother.

A few minutes later, Cas appeared, trailing blankets and looking more adorably grumpy than he had any right to, and promptly crawled on top of Dean to snuggle into him like he was some kind of hot water bottle or something.

Well, Sam was curled up next to him with one leg thrown across Dean’s, drooling steadily somewhere in the vicinity of his ribcage, and Cas was a warm, comfortable weight directly on top of him (really, Cas? Couldn’t have picked a better spot?), so Dean wasn’t really complaining. The two most important people in his life were right there with him and this way, he could take care of them.

He was, however, complaining the next morning, when it became immediately apparent that he had caught the flu that the other two had recovered from almost overnight. Cas, sitting patiently by his bed as he grumbled, just smiled and spoon-fed him his tomato-rice soup, interspersing spoonfuls with kisses despite Dean’s warnings about germs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very important public notice: do not drug yourself to sleep with NyQuil if you're not, y'know, sick. I did it when I was having nightmares and fucked up my liver for a while and built up a tolerance to it so... yeah. Don't do it. This has been a PSA from your friendly neighborhood dumbass


End file.
